


with sepia toned loving.

by redhoods



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Married Life, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: He smiles as he lifts his basket onto the dining table, starts separating out his bounty. Portions for Fjord to take to town to sell in the morning, portions they’ll keep for themselves, portions he’ll shunt off to their family spread about the continent.The wine he picks to open is peach and smells strongly of it when he removes the cork, leaves it to sit on the counter as he fetches two glasses, “One minute, thirty-three seconds,” he says to himself, even as there is a clatter on the front porch, muffled swearing.
Relationships: Fjord/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 6
Kudos: 117





	with sepia toned loving.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losebetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/gifts).



> grey asked for a wf new years kiss and i’m only like a week late but it’s tooth rotting so like that makes up for it, right?
> 
> title is from better together by jack johnson.

“Three minutes, fifty-six seconds,” Caleb murmurs to himself, nudging the greenhouse door shutwith his hip, hefting his basket up into his arms. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time he spends tending to the garden, the trees, the animals, his body is ill suited for physical labor.

Age is creeping on him as well, though he refuses to acknowledge it for now.

Thirty-eight is not quite so old, no matter what Beauregard believes.

The cottage is only a short walk, barely under three minutes when he lets himself in. Fire is still crackling in the hearth and Frumpkin is sprawled on the stone in front of it.

He smiles as he lifts his basket onto the dining table, starts separating out his bounty. Portions for Fjord to take to town to sell in the morning, portions they’ll keep for themselves, portions he’ll shunt off to their family spread about the continent.

The wine he picks to open is peach and smells strongly of it when he removes the cork, leaves it to sit on the counter as he fetches two glasses, “One minute, thirty-three seconds,” he says to himself, even as there is a clatter on the front porch, muffled swearing.

Pouring two glasses, he leaves them for now and goes to open the door, finds Fjord with a thumb sucked into his mouth, fishing rod on the top step and two baskets on either side of him. The scent of the ocean wafts and a breeze carries through, buffeting the smell, “Liebling.”

“Hello,” Fjord says when he’s pulled his hand away, smile soft, almost shy as his ears dip and he bends to retrieve his fishing pole, “I kicked the bottom step.”

“Again,” Caleb teases and takes one of his baskets, walking it down the porch.

Fjord grumbles good naturedly behind him and they put the baskets into the chest magicked to keep them cold and fresh, by the cleaning table. In the morning, Caleb will clean the fish while Fjord murmurs nonsense to the cows as he milks them. Then Fjord will walk to town and Caleb will water the garden.

“Forty-seven seconds,” Caleb calls to him, follows behind Fjord into the house.

Finds him at the counter, drinking from one of the glasses, line of his throat open, so Caleb doesn’t resist the urge, places a kiss at the hollow, then the hinge of his jaw, “Thirty-nine.”

Fjord laughs, a low rumble of sound and places the glass down on the counter, hands warm through the layer of Caleb’s shirt as they circle his waist, nudging them both away from the counter, the short steps to the table. And Fjord’s grip slides down, over his ass to his thighs, lifts him as if he weighs nothing, depositing him on the edge of the table. “Keep counting, love,” he says, voice low as his mouth smudges against Caleb’s skin, the gentle brush of blunt tusks accompanying each kiss.

Caleb swallows, curling his fingers in the front of Fjord’s shirt, head tipping back, “Mm, twenty-four.”

“Let me know when we hit ten,” Fjord presses into the skin behind his ear, starts worrying at the spot with his teeth and tusks.

Time threatens to slip from Caleb, the countdown faltering even with his perfect sense of the seconds, but he grasps at it desperately, gasps out a quiet, “Ten,” to Fjord, tugging at his shirt gently.

Fjord pulls back from his neck with a satisfied rumble, knocking their foreheads together gently.

“Nine,” he says to a quiet echo of, “Nein!” from  
Fjord that comes with his eyes crinkled at the sides, lower lip jutting out just a little so Caleb has to kiss it. 

Loses eight, seven, and six to that. 

He smooths his hand against Fjord’s belly, to his hips, murmurs, “Five,” and Fjord joins him for, “Four, three, two—“ cuts him off with a solid, searching kiss. It goes slick and languid, Fjord licking into his mouth until he groans, pushing his fingers under Fjord’s shirt to dig his nails against bare skin. 

Fjord breaks the kiss with a soft hiss of breath, nudging their foreheads, smudging a few quick kisses against his mouth, “Happy New Year, Cay.”

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs, grumbling unhappily when Fjord pulls away, but he only fetches the glasses of wine, returning to the space between Caleb’s knees. Lifting his own glass from Fjord’s grip, he takes a long sip before setting it on the table next to himself, “Good batch.”

Watches the line of Fjord’s throat once more as Fjord tips the rest of his glass back, no real sense of savoring when it comes to wine, but that’s alright with Caleb. It means Fjord sets down his empty glass, leans close to do so and Caleb happily takes advantage, wraps around his shoulders, steals his mouth in another kiss. 

Fjord rumbles against him, cups his thighs once more, a warning or appreciative, maybe both, squeeze before he’s lifted off the table. 

His wine glass abandoned once more. 

He cares not at all as Fjord sinks back into the couch, kiss breaking as Caleb shifts himself to settle astride his lap, tucked under his chin. Under his ear, Fjord’s heart thrums loud and steady. 

“Any plans for the new year?” He asks, as he lifts Fjord’s hand, presses his thumb against the scar on his palm before slotting their fingers together. His pale skin against Fjord’s verdant, the gleam of his own wedding band in the fire light. 

Fjord’s hum reverberates under his ear, “Finally fix that old boat up maybe,” he says eventually. 

Caleb can hear the tell tale sounds, the gentle clicking that precedes Fjord’s purring, rubs his cheek against Fjord’s chest, “Is that all?”

And fingers are gently prying the tie from his hair until it falls loose, claws scraping light over his scalp, “What else could I want to do?” Fjord asks, when his purr is rattling full force and when Caleb thinks he would be as well, if he could, head tipped into Fjord’s palm. “I love our life, what we’ve built here for ourselves.”

It sucker punches him in the chest, a pulled punch, but one nonetheless that has him pushing onto his knees until he can meet Fjord’s vaguely confused expression, “Ich liebe dich,” he blurts. 

Which isn’t what he’d meant to say, not the return of sentiments he’d been hoping for, but Fjord’s expression goes soft, eyes crinkling, pupils going wide for an instant, hand still against the base of Caleb’s skull, “I love you too.”

Caleb offers him a smile, tries to tell himself he won’t cry just because he’s too full of emotions, “It felt like an important thing to say in the first hour of the year.”

Fjord’s laugh is a rumble under his palm, watery in a way that Caleb won’t call him out for on the basis of hypocrisy, “As usual, you’re correct.” Then uses the palm cupping the back of his head to draw him into a kiss, this one comparatively chaste. 

They separate slow and Caleb resettles with his cheek against Fjord’s chest. 

“We should head to bed soon,” Fjord tells him, twenty-three minutes later, when Caleb’s already mostly asleep against his chest. 

“We should,” he agrees around a yawn, even as neither of them make a move to stand and Fjord presses a kiss to the top of his head, “a few more minutes, bitte.”

It’s only been two when Fjord sighs quietly beneath him and then there’s movement, adjustment and he’s lifted off the couch. “You’re going to make us both fall asleep on the couch,” Fjord grouses, but not at all meanly, still purring deep in his chest. 

Caleb hums, doesn’t remember closing his eyes, “Again,” he points out quietly as he tries to toe out of his shoes without moving his hands or removing himself from Fjord’s hold. To unsurprisingly no avail. “We should get a bigger couch.”

“Or sleepy wizards should learn to accept bed time,” Fjord teases as he’s placed on the edge of the bed. 

Finally, he blinks his eyes open, has to adjust to their dark room, finds the shape of Fjord knelt next to the bed, fingers picking at the laces of his shoes. He exhales quietly, says, “You are so good to me, libeling.”

His first shoe is put to the side and Fjord starts on the second, nudging a kiss against the inside of his knee, “As you are to me.”

Caleb murmurs out a general assent, sleep grappling at him as Fjord tucks his shoeless feet under the covers. Consciousness slips in and out and he’s only vaguely aware of Fjord moving around their room, the quiet thumps of his boots against the wood floors before the bed dips. It’s easy to not fight it, to tilt himself into Fjord’s space and sprawl across him, nuzzle against his chest. 

His shirt is gone now and Caleb smears an uncoordinated kiss to his bare skin as the purring restarts in earnest. 

One of Fjord’s arms circles him, palm splaying wide against his lower back, “G’night, love.”

Caleb half heartedly mumbles out a, “guten nacht,” or makes an attempt that he’s not sure passes as sleep drags more insistently at him.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m @vowofenmity on twitter


End file.
